Black Fox
by xxBlueBloodxx
Summary: What's one to do when an obnoxiously loud, motor mouthed, katana wielding, chimichanga obsessed psychotic mercenary breaks into your office, claims there's a hit on you for 'knowing too much' by one of your very own clients, then decides not to kill you after all, no, instead you're to become his new apprentice? Run. Run as far as you can.


My life was painfully normal.

I lived alone in a modest, two bedroom, loft styled apartment near a heavily isolated suburb in downtown New York. The long drive to work was an utter bitch in the mornings but well worth it in the end. The simple reason for that being I didn't fancy my house or neighborhood getting blown up or destroyed every other weekend because of the Avengers, or more often than not bloodthirsty, overpowered aliens thank you _very_ much. I owned two stubborn male cats, a black tabby and an orange calico named Anthony and Steven respectively, who harbored some kind of complicated love/hate relationship with each other ever since I adopted them a few years ago while under a sudden hormonal urge to care for animal of any kind rather than remain living by myself. As for relatives, my parents were long since passed and I'd moved far away from any of my remaining family. I had a few good friends here in New York, of course, but only one or two I'd ever really spent time with outside of work. Many liked to describe me as 'distant yet kind', when really I just preferred to keep to myself.

My full time job at the local psychiatric hospital, St. Judith's Psychiatric Centre specifically, was evaluating and caring for the mentally handicapped. I worked extensively with them, helped them, and even sometimes judged if a patient was really 'crazy' or not. It was grueling work, to be sure. I can't _tell_ you how many cases I'd run across of criminals claiming insanity only to be denied and sent to jail after my psych evaluation results came out. Unfortunately, I'd made plenty of enemies by just doing my job but thankfully most would still be in jail long after I died.

On the side, I used my hard earned bachelor's degree in psychology to hold extremely private, off the radar therapy sessions with the upper class. Rich people, I found to no one's real surprise, needed just as much therapy as a normal person. They, however, preferred the paparazzi and press to steer clear of said problems.

That's where I came in.

My business was legitimate, if small, and each secret spilled on my overly comfortable leather couch were guaranteed to never leave the room. I'd opened the poorly named 'Reid's Therapy' shortly after graduating college on a whim more than anything. At the time, I'd highly doubted such a fledgling business, run by a freshly graduated twenty-four year old at that, would garner much attention no matter _how_ hard I worked. Still, it was never my original goal to make a bunch of money anyways. I'd done it mainly just to see if I _could_ , as a way to prove myself worthy and put my expensive ass education to some practical use, student loans be damned.

In the end, my hefty gamble payed off.

At the very beginning, I'd only had one or two relatively average clients who were desperate enough to allow such a young, inexperienced doctor like me become their new personal therapist. I could understand, to an extent. Many people would have used the opportunity to just meet with celebrities or attempt illegal blackmail on the rich. I, however, had always abhorred such trivialities and despite their cautious skepticism remained completely professional. It took time, as most worthwhile things do but eventually after proving myself highly trained and trustworthy the clients seemed to realize I was very serious about my job and with it came a flood of new, richer clients.

This was about two years ago.

By now I'd gained a steadier, more fulfilling job at the Hospital treating and caring for the mentally ill. Yet, despite the increasingly stressful hours I never gave up my first job, to begin with the work was always spotty at best but I always found extra time to see any new clients and continue sessions with my current ones.

Since then I'd gained quite a reputation for myself, my young age being a finer detail most found rather baffling when one considered the increasing popularity of my business. My main selling factor being, of course, my spotless record with the press. I'd spent a lot of money since then on keeping my building's location strictly top secret, most clients only knew of my work number until I was appropriately hired and then therapy sessions were moved to my office. I took silent pride in that, absurdly pleased with myself to have accomplished something so ambitious while still so young.

Drawing myself out of my thoughts I sagged tiredly against my well-loved, brown office desk and ran a tanned, exhausted hand through my long, wavy ebony hair. Soft beams of orange and yellow light streamed unhindered through the small office windows, casting a picturesque hue of colors floating around the serene looking room.

I sighed quietly to myself, straightening my back only to lean heavily backwards into my very expensive black leather swivel chair. Its couch equivalent sat empty a few feet away in front of the desk. A tasteful, dark green paint coated the walls and large, box shaped bookshelves lined the entire right flank of the room, filled to the brim with various literature pertaining to anything psychology related. Heavy, clear crystal figurines remained the books' only support from just toppling over into unorganized messes within the shelves. Carefully selected paintings of vast, blooming flower fields and bright woods hung along any available free space on the walls.

Twin, glass end tables stood proudly next to each arm of the couch, two identical vases of freshly cut white and yellow roses placed perfectly in the middle of the tables. The floor itself was a stained wood, my feet producing that satisfying _click clack_ noise every time I inevitably caved and decided to torture myself by wearing heels to work. They made my legs look killer and frankly I enjoyed the height boost it did to my petite 5'3 frame. There was a tall, metal filing cabinet stacked tightly against an empty corner behind the desk and a fully stocked mini bar took up most of the other side of the room. It wasn't anything special and definitely against regulations, but well worth the small fortune it cost to build. Rich people tended to feel more comfortable with the option of alcohol when talking about their issues and after secretly stashing away bottles of it to be used only for the more difficult clients I eventually gave up with the pretense altogether.

And yes, even if I was underhanded enough to use alcohol as an incentive for therapy I wasn't _completely_ lawless. My one and only rule was I never allowed the clients to get drunk, just drink enough to take the edge off and afterword's were required to stay at the office until the alcohol completely left their systems. Most of the upper class were used to drinking anyways so despite probably being illegal, the bar became another 'selling factor' to my business and I somehow ended up gaining even more clients. I wanted it to bother me, honestly, but in the end rich people were the ones paying for my services and if a mini bar is what they wanted to feel better while talking out their issues, then so be it.

I twitched from my prone position sprawled across my comfy chair, the leather was broken in _just so_ , wondering yet again for about the thousandth time why I didn't just quit one of my jobs and spare myself the stress.

 _Perhaps because you secretly have masochistic tendencies_? A small voice whispered in the back my head.

I ignored it, producing an unladylike snort as I stood up from the addictive comfort of my office chair and absently collected the scattered files strewn across my desk.

It was late into the afternoon by now and a rare day I had off from the hospital. Determined to use the time wisely I'd decided to catch up with my first job and consequently spent most of the early morning either refiling wayward documents or holding quick, hour-long emergency sessions with any clients who badly needed it. Thus, seven hours later my back was smarting and my feet were practically demanding I quit moving around. In spite of my complaining feet I continued to maneuver around my office with practiced ease and slowly began to put away any loose files, attempting to clean up a little. Once satisfied I walked to my office door and carefully stepped out, easily spotting my tall blond secretary seated behind the small desk I used as a reception area. She had her laptop open, long, manicured nails clicking away at the keys and most likely working on scheduling next week's appointments. The rarely used office phone sat a few feet away on the same desk along with a few personal items.

Connie was a twenty-three year old undergrad in her last semester of college that had a scarily efficient talent for management normally uncommon in one so young. When I'd first realized my once mediocre business was rapidly getting too large to manage on my own I'd reluctantly had the applications looking for a secretary sent out. I knew I'd have to be extremely careful with whom to hire, my whole business rested on my ability to remain inconspicuous so I was mainly looking for someone I could trust. Luckily, Connie was an old friend I knew from my own college days and when I'd read her name while going through the completed applications a week later I was pleasantly surprised. Turned out Connie really needed the _ridiculously_ impractical amount of work experience required to go into her dream job so working for me was a win-win situation. I got an employee I trusted and Connie got a head start on hoarding up the work experience required to land a good position as soon as she graduated. The fact that I could personally relate to having high ambitions for yourself while being so young helped, of course.

To be fair, it worked out best that way.

Because of the nature of the business my, and now consequently Connie's, work hours were unpredictable and flaky at best. Don't get me wrong, we _tried_ to keep to a normal work schedule but sometimes things just couldn't be helped. A normal secretary would have probably either quit by now or cussed me out from all the trouble it caused. Thankfully, Connie and I had been friends ever since I was a senior in college, Connie herself a rosy-faced freshman at the time, so she was well used to my particular quirks that would have thrown most people off by now.

"Good evening, Doctor Reid," Connie said cheekily as soon as I shut the door. She handed me a freshly brewed cup of coffee from the still bubbling machine, her blue eyes glinting mischievously.

I took the offered cup with delicate fingers, inhaling the heavenly aroma and sighing in pure bliss. Taking a careful sip I had to repress another shamelessly inappropriate noise as the scorching hot liquid slowly slid down my parched throat, effectively waking me up.

"Oh ha, ha," I shot back, rolling my eyes affectionately at the woman. "I was going to say you're a life saver but since we're apparently back to professional terms, rather," I leaned over to gently pat the top of her head.

"Excellent work, my minion."

Connie leaned away from my offending hand, a frown on her pretty face but the corners of her mouth kept twitching, like she wanted to smile but refused to give me the satisfaction. I smirked internally.

"Yes, alright. How did the emergency sessions go today then, _Jennifer_?" she emphasized, stirring her own personally made cup of green tea that she claimed was, and quote; 'Way healthier than that black sludge you willingly ingest'.

"As usual, _Connie dear_ , which is to say I spent the past seven hours listening to rich people complain about the woes of being rich."

Connie barked out a short laugh at that.

"Anyway, it's pretty late now. I have a few last minute files to type up but otherwise you're free to go."

Connie sent me a dubious eyebrow raise but refrained from pointing out that I was absolutely terrible with time management and it was only around five in the afternoon, hardly _late_. Instead, bless her, Connie simply nodded and went about organizing her desk for the night. Once finished she dumped the rest of her tea in the small sink in the bathroom to the right of the reception area, then expertly snagged her light cream colored jacket and green leather purse hanging behind her chair.

Sashaying to the flight of stairs that would lead her down and back outside Connie paused to look back at me, her short, curled blond hair bouncing in that highly attractive way men found so appealing but to me was just unnecessary. Which she very well knew and most likely did on purpose, the witch.

"Do call me if you get too swamped, boss." Were her parting words as I silently watched her curvaceous form disappear down the flight of stairs. I'd always secretly admired that about Connie. My own skinny hundred and thirty pound frame was more long-limbed and willowy. That, combined with my rather pathetic height always left me feeling like I looked slightly off, somehow. Even my face, with my unmanageable, wavy black hair, small nose and dark brown eyes were pathetically average. Not Connie though, even back at college she'd always had the looks and boobs most guys drooled over. She and I had a complicated relationship but it worked and I could honestly say Connie was probably one of the few genuine friends I still had here in New York.

I shook my head, refocusing myself as I shut and locked the door by the stairs, flipping the open sign to closed. Stalking back to my office I hardly noticed the huge, red and black blob in my peripheral vision until it was much, much too late.

Humming absently I plopped myself harshly back onto my office chair, head bowed as I kneaded my fingers into the side of my head to relieve the pain from a growing headache. Suddenly, a bright gold to my immediate left catches my attention and I'm left staring blankly at it for a minute. In the middle of my desk was a thick, plastic gold card. My full name, _Jennifer Reid_ , was etched eloquently across the center. The hell? As my hand reached to pick up the card and examine it closer a deep, almost chipper male voice spoke near my bar area, startling me so badly my chair rocked dangerously from the force of my instinctive flinch.

"Your spatial awareness is fucking awful."

I shot up from my seat, heart hammering and adrenaline flooding my veins to prepare myself to take on this unknown threat that somehow snuck into my highly secretive office building. As my eyes find the source of the voice I froze, completely dumbfounded.

A masked man in the brightest red and black full body suit I'd ever seen sat casually as you please at my mini bar, nursing a full glass of whisky and taking random sips from it with his mask still on. Said liquid trailed in long, sticky looking rivulets down the sides of his mask as the man continued to either not care or was too drunk to lift up the mask in order to take a proper drink. The mask itself was like the rest of his suit, bright red with a large, black shaped oval pattern around his eyes that reminded me of panda eyes. A neutral white most likely made up of the same material served as his eyeholes. The stranger was equipped with wicked looking black metal shoulder pads, knee bracers and black leather boots and gloves. Two swords, katana's I think, were strapped to his back in an X formation and he wore a complicated looking utility belt. A handgun I couldn't recognize but looked intimidating as hell was holstered to each leg.

Terrified but also suddenly furious that this weird stranger had the nerve to break into _my_ office I unintentionally spoke the first thing I thought.

"What are you supposed to be, some new, more obnoxious looking avenger?"

The man snorted harshly but I could gleam by his body language alone he was at least a little amused by my insult.

" _Please_ , like I'd ever agree to join that marry band of waffle dicks. I have better standards than that, Velma knockoff, try again."

My body was still frozen. I wasn't sure what it was about this guy that screamed DANGEROUS, well, besides the obviously very lethal weapons coating his person of course but I had a feeling I was in _way_ over my head. You know how a mouse runs desperately away from a predator, only to glance behind itself to see the sharpened claws of an incoming owl and suddenly it just _knows_ it's about to die?

That's how I felt in that moment.

The man tilted his head, watching my reaction with obvious fascination. Thankfully, his movements were rather exaggerated so even without seeing his facial expressions I could still at least somewhat guess what he was thinking.

"You know, normally I try not to question my hits, money's money, yeah? But seriously, whose disease ridden feathers did you ruffle to get such a high bounty put on that pretty little head of yours? You hardly look like you could kick a puppy."

I swallowed compulsively, still a little dumbfounded by this strange man's appearance let alone his odd mannerisms. Hit? Was this guy a mercenary or something?

"I... _what_?" I finally stuttered, my right hand slowly inching towards the hidden compartment underneath my desk where I always hide a small, preloaded pistol. Because my business was heavily discreet the location for my office building was in a rougher part of New York than most would expect. It wasn't the slums or anything, god forbid rich people are ever required to venture anywhere near the _real_ slums, mainly it was just a little more isolated than the typical business. Thus, I always kept a small firearm of some kind stashed away for protection in case of emergencies. Though, did I honestly think I could beat this guy, a clear master at his craft, with my single, tiny gun? Not really, but I'd rather have a weapon of any kind than be completely helpless in this situation.

However, before I could even fully attempt to grasp the hidden metal mild pain exploded on the top of my hand and I jerked my arm away in instinctive surprise.

"Ah, ah!" the man mockingly scolded me, waging a finger like I was some misbehaving child. "That wouldn't be a very good idea, I'm far faster and far deadlier, sugerpop."

I pulled my injured hand close to my chest, noting the thin, sluggishly bleeding wound spanning the top of my hand from my thumb to my middle finger. It wasn't a terribly deep cut and stung like a bitch but I got the message loud and clear. _Try that again and I'll kill you._ Wearily I looked back to the man to see him idly spinning a small throwing knife. Small, barely there tremors began to rack my short frame as my whole situation finally began to overwhelm me. I was completely alone with some crazy killer in a glorified red suit who could do whatever he wanted and was most likely here to kill me.

 _Just fucking perfect._

"Why are you here?" I demanded him, internally pleased when my voice remained strong and shook only a little noticeably at the end.

The man stood up with an overly exaggerated flourish, stashing his knife…somewhere and tossing his still half-full glass of whisky behind him as it continued to follow the rules of gravity and shatter into tiny little pieces all over my hardwood floor. Completely ignoring the huge mess he just made and my own heated glare for the mistreatment of my possessions he circled around my stiff body like a shark scenting the water.

"Now _those_ are the questions you should be asking!"

Here he suddenly paused, like he just realized something himself.

"Actually, that's what I'd like to know, too. Seriously, did you fuck the guy and reject him afterwards or something? Did he have a micro penis, like Hitler? Was it deformed and veiny so you, very reasonably I'll add cause you don't see that sorta glorious shit every day, take many incriminating photos of said dick to hang around your house and mercilessly mock in your own time?"

I just stood there, honestly thrown by his whole demeanor.

Unbothered by my lack of response, an annoying trait I'd later learn was mainly because most people tended to ignore the idiot when he went off on these random ass tangents, the insane man just went on talking to himself like I wasn't even there.

"Huh, given your pathetically textbook reaction I'd say that's a no. So, not a jealous lover then? Shit, those are always fun. Honestly, you have me stumped, and I'm also pretty fucking sure someone's dicking with me so I've decided I'm not going to kill you after all."

"…thanks?" I said quietly, hugging my injured hand to myself in a death grip as my stress level mounted thrice fold. What an indecisive man, so he _was_ sent to kill me but now he decides not to? Not that I wanted to die of course, but clearly this guy didn't know how to stay in character.

"You know what? Fuck it! What's a better way to say 'screw you' to the cum guzzling shit biscuit who thought they could manipulate me, Deadpool, then to train you up as a first class assassin and send you to finish the fuckface off?"

"E-excuse me!?" I gasped, hoping, _praying_ I'd just heard him wrong. _He can't be serious!_

The self-proclaimed 'deadpool' easily waved off my horror stricken face.

"Oh don't worry, with my help you'll become an expert assassin in no time! Although, that's only if you survive the training. But don't let your fellow apprentice's deaths deter you from trying!"

I opened my mouth to speak, to cuss him out or distract him and attempt a suicide run, I wasn't sure. All I knew is there was no _way_ I would allow this insane man to train me to be an assassin. I was a therapist for God's sake, not some murderer! But just as I went to try I stumbled, my legs suddenly shaking from the effort of holding my body up and an intense wave of dizziness washing over me. Even my vision started to lose focus and I stumbled once more, my uninjured hand flying out to grasp the side of my desk in order to stay up right. What…what the hell was this? Did he _drug_ me? How!?

"Oh, right, I forgot to mention. That knife I threw at you earlier was coated with moose sedative so you won't die…I'm pretty sure."

 _Pretty sure!?_

Faster than I thought possible my knee's buckled completely and my whole body sagged to the floor. Before I could fall flat on my face and get a nasty concussion or other serious injury the man's body seemed to blur and then suddenly he was right next to me, reaching down to snag my waist and toss me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Struggling weakly, my eyesight already tunneling I accidentally got a strong whiff of his scent and wrinkled my nose immediately afterwards. He smelled like dried blood, leather and the left over whisky from earlier.

"Well this is new," I could hear him muse cheerfully to himself while I hung like a limp noodle across his muscle toned back and slowly started to lose consciousness. _Fucking…asshole_ …I managed to think darkly at him with the remainder of my strength, white spots dancing behind fluttering eyelids.

"This is the first time I've had to physically drug a potential apprentice to cooperate, it's almost like the author got lazy and couldn't think up anything better!"

Drowsy now and almost unconscious I barely noticed the man's odd tick at addressing a seemingly invisible audience. In no time at all darkness rushed up to greet me, shrouding me in blissful ignorance as some crazy, katana wielding, gun carrying mercenary toted my unresponsive body off to who knows where.

And that, my dear readers, is how I, Jennifer Ann Reid, suddenly became Deadpool's unwilling apprentice.

Lord help me.

 _ **Author's note:**_ _Cuz' let's be honest, from an outsiders perspective Deadpool would be scary as shit to suddenly stumble upon(or be sent to kill you) unless you actually knew the guy. And as our poor girl Jen will soon learn, he's not actually as terrifying as he looks at first glance. Completely bat shit insane, however? Most definitely._


End file.
